“Everything burned in the wreck except his teeth, what they used to identify him.”
Jesse Breite

        for Luke

I‘ve watched my computer die every day
for four hundred and thirty five days.

Its little red light batters on and out;
its cautionary smoke babbles over live docs.

Sometimes I hesitate, but I know I let this take,
choosing to ignore—to let it burn itself ash-blank.

This is how Bobby and I stopped hanging out
with Luke after we taught him to smolder, to blaze.
This is how we didn’t pick-up or return calls
after we admired his avant-garde auto-theft.

This is how he last looked us in the eyes—
precious red flickering within—and told us

five times he’d be dead before twenty-one.
We just sat there.

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